


Showmen

by MaidenMotherCrone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, I hope your bodies are ready, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Ringmaster Tom Riddle, Seer Luna Lovegood, This shit is gonna be real, Trapeze Artist Harry, circus performer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaidenMotherCrone/pseuds/MaidenMotherCrone
Summary: Tom Riddle is a monster. Tom Riddle is a freak. Tom Riddle is a nobody. Nobody from birth, and nobody until death.That’s what the aristocrats told him. The classmates that tormented him, day in and day out. The Muggles that were supposed to protect him at the orphanage. His dirty blood. It’s what they all told him, but Tom Riddle has also never been good at doing what he’s told.Tom Riddle is a nobody. Tom Riddle is a visionary without shame and a craving for an audience. So, he’ll create an audience out of the spectacle of his freakishness.





	1. Chapter 1

He stood in the center of a ring.

The silence was deafening. He couldn't hear the shifting of the wooden planks. He couldn't hear the creaking of metal above him. His chest was hollow. He dipped his head forward, reaching one hand up to draw his fingers across the brim of his top hat. He imagined that they were screaming. Screaming in anticipation. Screaming for his blood. He couldn't hear anything.

He couldn’t even hear his own breath.

And then, he lifted his cane, yanking the top off. His yew wand shone like a beacon in the dim tent. He centered himself, crimson eyes gleaming. He held as still as possible, building anticipation.

_Lights._

“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for,” he called softly. Never rising into a shout. He didn’t need to. They felt the silence too, cutting through as sharp as a knife.

Red sparks shot out from the end of his wand, and the beams exploded into being, circling his ring. He took a deep breath and slowly lifted his head, crimson irises peering out at his audience. They stared back at him—wizarding and Muggle alike—entranced by him as he strutted forward, cutting through the air as if he were nothing but magic personified.

The back of his neck beaded with sweat. His bones ached as the wind picked up, whistling gently through his arena. The magic descended and he threw his arms open as if to embrace them into the fever dream of his making. His lips curled into a terrible smile—one of malicious charm, biting at them, eating at them. It was a smile that demanded surrender.

_Magic._

He turned on his heel, strode up to the center and spun, a booted heel kicking up the sand, his wand pointed out.

Color exploded. The back doors swung open with a clang, revealing the shadowy group. A single rope descended from the sky, swinging down next to him. He grabbed it, looping it around his wrist, waiting for his act. His _muse._

And the freaks appeared, slinking out from the shadows. He could hear them now, their hisses and their taunts, their lips curled into terrible smiles. He looked up and watched Ginerva walk along the tightrope, using her broom as a balancing pole, her bare toes curling around the wire like talons. She looked regal in her gold leotard.

Barty backed up, kicking up sand in a cloud. And then he catapulted through, flipping through the air as easily as a monkey might. He tumbled through the air, using his hands to propel his body one more time through the air. He landed easily on the back of a hippogriff, riding it around the ring with a feral grin on his face. He passed by Ronald who towered over everyone easily, his gaunt six foot seven form striding forward, Hermione perched on his shoulder, balanced on her forearms, her legs writhing through the air. She slunk down his body, curling and contorting her body until she landed on all fours. Bending backward, shoving her face out between her legs, she grinned, her wild curls surrounded her head like a lion's mane.

_Speaking of..._ he grinned as a roar ripped through the circus tent, and out leapt the chimera, Newt on her heels, skidding through the sand as he raised his wand, attempting to calm her. His striking blue cloak flapped around him and he shrugged it off, swinging it around in an attempt to grab the chimera’s attention. The swooping evil burst from his shadow, spiraling through the air, circling Ginevra as Ginevra flipped over, straddling the wire and hung down, using her leg as a hook. Brown eyes met crimson and she smirked, saluting him and she turned to look at the diving board that extended out from the back of the tent. She lifted the broomstick out in front of her, perpendicular to her body and slowly let go, watching it float in the air under her command.

He was coming.

The ringmaster spun, bowing as Hagrid lumbered from the doorway, leading the paired graphorn and tiger forward. The twins ran out, fire exploding in their hands, breathing the flames between the pair of them. Their freckles stretched with the obscenity of the grins as they waved their wands, sending the fireworks high above them.

Yaxley grinned as he strode out, the color canvas inked across his chest telling the world his inspiration. He turned to the young woman that stood in the light and bowed. Luna Lovegood took his hand and strode forward, escorted as the finest lady would be. Draped in white—a white as white as her skin, as silvery as her hair—she gave a tranquil smile. Yaxley spun off his cloak twirling it over her and then pulled it away.

There were gasps as his great snake, Nagini, appeared, draped over her shoulders and curled around his waist at least three times. Luna walked forward, pushing up on her toes in her white satin pointe shoes, bourréing forward, her arms waving as though she waded through water. Nagini slowly unraveled herself as Luna landed next to him.

“ _My sweet,_ ” he hissed.

Nagini lifted her head, her yellow eyes boring into his. Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air.

“ _Master_ ,” she hissed back in greeting.

Luna giggled and she bowed to him and then pirouetted away, pointing up at the roof of the tent. The performers all froze, redirecting their gazes to the diving board.

He looked up. His _muse._ Leaping, running, sharp green eyes crucifying the crowd. He nearly couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Nearly.

Nearly, because he heard them.

The silence peeled away and he heard the screams of adoration.

It was everything he'd ever wanted. It was everything that he'd ever needed. And here it was, all in front of him.

Tom Riddle was once a nobody. A monster.

A _freak_.

He looked around at his kingdom, grinning madly. The Muggles and the wizarding alike were under his spell, enchanted and bewildered by his spectacle.

No one had known Tom’s name before.

They would know. They all would _know_ , and they would _remember._

The King of Nobodies. The King of Monsters. The King of _Freaks._

He would claim that title. Better to reign in hell than to serve in Heaven.

_Everything he'd ever wanted. Everything he'd ever needed..._

Green eyes flashed as the Phoenix took flight, and the circus exploded.


	2. Chapter One

**1926**

 

He'd always been adept at standing out while blending into a crowd.

It never made much sense to Rosier or Yaxley, but it had always made sense to him. He could affect the charisma of a Minister or the invisibility of a peasant at the flip of a Galleon. This skill had always served him well. There had never been a moment where it had not. Perhaps the attention wasn’t always positive, but how could one such as he care about that. He flourished in their love and their hatred. It was no matter to him which he received, as long as he commanded their respect. Or their fear. Was there a difference between the two?

He had seen no difference in that filthy Muggle’s eyes when he had crumpled to the ground, fear left by the sight of seeing his filthy parents dropping in the wake of bright green flashes of light.

Tom walked forward, peering down at the Muggle man, his face froze in fright. He licked his lips. He would relish that look. He would dream about that look. He felt something akin to terror stir low in his own belly.

_You look mighty like the Muggle. That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way. You look right like him._

Tom took a deep breath, forcing Morfin’s words away. He fingered the ill-bred man’s wand, thinking of how he had stunk of mold and alcohol, a stench so strong that it had burned Tom’s eyes. He was certainly born of filth, wasn’t he? Filthy Muggle blood. Filthy inbred blood.

Still. He looked at that face, frozen in terror. It was like looking in a mirror.

_Who are you? What is your name, boy?_

Tom stepped away from his sire, staring at Mary Riddle, curiously. Her son looked nothing like her. She was swan-like with a slim neck and blonde hair and cauliflower blue eyes. Her neck had stopped when she'd fallen to the ground, brittle like bird bones. Her head was twisted at such a painful angle. He squatted next to her, brushing her hair from her face to look at her truly.

_A bastard, Tom? Truly? A bastard? Have you no shame?_

“I am no bastard,” Tom murmured, softly, sweetly, as he had when she’d first spat those words at him. “Ridden with filth, perhaps, but legitimate nonetheless.”

He stood and turned, peering curiously at Thomas Riddle’s broken body. He had been the first to fall after he had screamed and writhed, under pain of the Cruciatus Curse. It had only been Tom’s second time casting such a spell. He had read that one had to mean it.

Tom had never meant anything more.

Rosier and Yaxley would’ve been impressed. Horrified. Perhaps, Yaxley would understand more. Horrified that Tom had accomplished such a feat at the delicate age of 16, but understanding still.

_You’re that freakish whore’s son, aren’t you? Come for money?_

“I don’t want your filthy money,” Tom hissed, terribly proud. He would take it anyway. Out of spite, he told himself. All of it out of spite. He had not cried for a father or a family since he was a small, miserable thing, unable to fill out the bed at the orphanage.

Tears would not help him now, so he would shed none.

Thomas Riddle looked agonized. There was something beautifully haunting about it all. Tom's lips curled into a smile. The Muggle looked like his father, as Tom looked like the Muggle. The blood was strong in terms of look, but not power. No Tom had demonstrated otherwise. He knew no other his age that could perform the feats of magic that he could.

_Now, her freakish son returns. Your mistakes always seem to haunt you, Tom, don’t they?_

They had the same name. He had known it. But, to hear it. Tom had been careful not to startle at being spoken about or to, or not. He hadn't been sure. He had been sure that they would die for what they had done to his mother. His damned, simple mother. His ill-treated, _dead_ mother.

It had been easy when he thought of her, the story that Morfin had told.

It had been easier than falling asleep.

  _Stop it! You monster! You’re a monster!_

Mary Riddle had screamed. The Muggle had tried to call for help, but Tom had Silenced him with a flick of Morfin’s wand.

_FREAK._

Mary Riddle had fallen next. Tom had not wasted time torturing her. Now, that he thought back to her death, he remembered hearing the sickening crack. It had made his heart beat faster. He had saved the Muggle with his face for last. He had lifted the Silencing Charm.

“Beg,” Tom breathed, closing his eyes, remembering.

_I-I’m your father. D-don’t kill me. Don’t._

“You left my mother,” Tom repeated as he had only moments before. He wanted to walk through this. Ingrain it in his brain. He never wanted to forget.

He would _never_ forget.

_Please…_

“She was of the noble blood of Salazar Slytherin and you _abandoned_ her. I will kill you.”

_Fine! You’re as much of a monster as she was. I’m glad the_ bitch _is dead._

“Avada Kedavra,” Tom whispered.

There was no green light this time. Slowly, he opened his eye and nodded.

It was there. All of it was there. The drawing room was remarkably quiet. He could hear the chirping of the birds outside. The sun was beginning to set, casting the room in a mess of oranges and lavenders. Tom stepped over the Muggle’s face and paused, looking at the hat set on the nightstand.

_Never forget what you are._ Yaxley’s voice echoed in his ear.

It was a beautiful hat. Tall, flat-crown, broad-brimmed. Perhaps to the Muggles, it had been a casual top hat, made of wool—inferior to its silk or fur brethren. But, to Tom, it was the finest piece of clothing that he’d ever seen so close. He couldn’t stop himself from touching the brim. His fingers curled around it and he lifted it, inspecting it.

There was work to be done. Morfin’s wand had to be returned, his mind erased, and a memory planted. He needed to return to the orphanage soon or they would miss him. Dumbledore always suspected him. He would give the wretched professor nothing to suspect. And yet...he had to _remember._

It was a beautiful hat.

Slowly, Tom Marvolo Riddle settled the top hat atop his head.

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1932**

Tom leaned over the counter, drumming his fingers against the counter, waiting for the clock to strike twelve. He glanced through the dirt-caked window and rolled his eyes when he saw two young women giggling as they peered in through the window at him. They turned away, cackling and hawing so loud that the sound boomed throughout the antique shop. They peeled away, their cloaks flapping around them, revealing their thin shifts, the way the dipped low showing off their bony collarbones. The two young women's curls bounced in the wind as they hurried back to the whorehouse.

“Popular, aren’t you, boy?”

“I suppose I am, Mr. Borgin,” Tom said with a sly smile.

Borgin sneered at him, muttering under his breath as he tossed a dirty rag at Tom’s face. Tom caught it easily, grinding his teeth together.

He couldn’t kill the man. He had told Yaxley that he wouldn’t kill so often, and if he needed to, it wouldn’t be someone so close to him. Yaxley wouldn’t be able to make the rent with his roommate in Azkaban. Not that Tom was stupid enough to get caught. He’d imagined Borgin’s death enough that he thought he could execute his plan rather seamlessly. Immaculately, even.

“Stop just sitting there, waiting for lunch. Get to cleaning,” Borgin snarled.

Tom did as he was told, gracefully rising from his chair, reminding Borgin of how he towered over him. Borgin sneered and Tom smirked back as he walked around the counter, carefully going to polish the broken Vanishing Cabinet at the back of the shop.

“ _Accio_ stool,” he called and the rickety three-legged stool zoomed over, settling neatly at the foot of the Cabinet. Tom sat, folding his long body into three, his knees close to his chest as he began to polish.

When Tom had first decided to work at Borgin & Burkes, it had been due to the pretty egg-sized locket in the window, emeralds glinting in the shape of an ‘S’. He had seen it for the first time when he was 15 years old, after he had discovered his mighty heritage, and had walked inside. Inside, there was so much more reason—the artifacts of the Dark’s history called to him, and the magic of it all had settled comfortably between his shoulder blades. Each item was grander and more grotesque than the next, and the pageantry had called to him.

Tom always enjoyed a good show.

The richest pureblood families liked to parade their children through, showing them what it was that they were to be proud of—the most powerful objects, and they flocked to Knockturn in the night, like moths to a flame. Tom had flocked too, though he had no money and no family. However, he was not like the hypocrites. He would come day or night, unashamed of his penchant for darkness.

And his unabashed love had led to the fruits of his labor. Tom’s lips quirked into a smile as he thought about the objects that he had begun to gather from a young age—Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, acquired from one Hepzibah Smith through the careful Confounding of her elf. That had happened early, one of his first assignments. Borgin had demanded to know what had been of the cup, but Tom was a skilled liar, and all it had taken was a look of irritation—a small feat—to convince Borgin that the cup had been a fake. Tom had known otherwise.

Then, a trip to the Albanian Forest had procured Ravenclaw’s diadem. And he had no need for Gryffindor’s sword.

All that was left was the locket, still in the shop window, Borgin and Burke’s most prized find.

The clock struck twelve.

Tom tossed his rag to the ground and stood up, nearly knocking down the stool.

“I’m going to lunch,” Tom said, sharply. With a flick of his wand, he Summoned his cloak and his hat from the coat stand behind the counter. He settled the black cloak around his shoulders, his father’s top hat on his head and he strode out the door without another glance back.

Tom didn’t turn towards the pub as he tended to for lunch. Instead, he turned towards the light. He could already see _them_ —witches and wizards dressed in fine plum-colored velvet and turquoise silks. Proud and beautiful and Light. Tom knew there was beauty in darkness. After all, he was an example of that.

Even still, he paused, staring out from the entrance of Knockturn into Diagon Alley.

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1922**

He hid in the back of the library, deep in the Restricted Section. It was safest there, where only those with permission could access him. It was usually fifth years and above who came back here, and they wouldn’t bother a small twelve-year-old. He wouldn’t be worth their time in his eyes.

Tom’s lips curled into a sneer.

He hadn’t been tormented in years, and yet, here he was, hiding. Like a _rat._

Tom could curse them all. He could do what he had done to Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson. He could make them _fear_. The purebloods were terrified at the thought that he could best them, that he was more intelligent, that he was more powerful, but they knew nothing of true fear. Tom knew what that was. He knew what it took to cause it in a person.

He ground his teeth together.

_Dirty Mudblood._ That’s what Lucius Malfoy had spat at him over and over again. _Unworthy of Slytherin House._

And Tom had not struck him. The Malfoys were powerful, and Tom was not a fool. He would only make an enemy of them when he could afford to. And he would be able to afford to, one day. He _would_. Because he would make them fear. He would make them fear the dirty Mudblood. The dirty, poor orphan boy

“ _I will make you fear_ ,” he hissed, Parseltongue slipping out in his rage. “ _I will be your monster._ ”

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1932**

Tom took a deep breath, adjusting his top hat on his head, and then he strode forward out of the shadows, his head tilted high. He knew from the moment that he peeled away from Knockturn Alley, all eyes would be on him. After all, who would dare to emerge from the darkest wizarding cesspool during daylight? Who would dare show their faces after being in such darkness? Tom's handsome face twisted into a sneer.

Their judgment meant nothing. Their words meant nothing. They were nothing but cockroaches, told what to say, told what to feel, told what to think, by those with more charisma, though no more intelligence. Tom’s lips twitched into a small smile at that thought.

He walked towards Gringotts, up the pristine white stone steps, and past the particularly tall goblins.

“Excuse me, are you lost? You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Tom looked at the bank teller, a young woman with blonde hair piled high up on her head. Her nose was high in the air as if she were smelling shit everywhere. _Narcissa Malfoy nee Black._ Tom’s former classmate’s uppity little wife.

“It’s a bank, my dear. I think if I have an account to be here,” he said as patronizingly as possible. Narcissa scoffed, storming away to speak crossly to the two goblin guards.

Tom rolled his eyes. Perhaps he was wearing second-hand robes, but did that _really_ make her think he didn't even have a bank account? Not that he did have one because it was unnecessary when his salary went straight to rent or groceries or his travel expenses when hunting down another of his artifacts. And really, he trusted only himself with his hard-earned money, thank you.

Tom looked around, searching for his friend and smirked when he saw the man himself, speaking gently to a goblin that must have been his boss. Rosier smoothed down his waistcoat, nodding seriously before he was seemingly dismissed. Rosier tossed his cloak over one arm and looked around, searching for Tom.

"Rosier!" Tom called as obnoxiously as possible. He was thrilled when the patrons turned to him, casting him terrible glares that he returned with a glacial stare. They cowered under it, only putting him in a further good mood.

"Tom. This is my workplace," Rosier drawled. His smile belied his complaint and he drew Tom in, clapping him quickly on the back. "It's been some time, my friend."

“A month or so since you’ve been in the seedy wizarding underworld,” Tom taunted.

Rosier snorted. “And since you’ve come into the Light. Come, I’ve booked reservations for us at the Hippogriff House.”

“My, my, Rosier. Are you sure you want to be seen _there_? Associating with riff-raff?" Tom taunted, his lips curled into a toothy sneer. Rosier rolled his eyes again, as they walked out of the lobby and back towards Diagon Alley.

“If I didn’t want to be seen with you, I’d be sneaking into Knockturn Alley in the dead of night,” Rosier pointed out.

“Your father is rolling around in your grave. I hope you know that,” Tom said, his eyes bright with amusement.

“Oh, promises, promises.”

The unlikely duo, one dressed in emerald green finery and the other in plain black robes and an old top hat, couldn’t be more mismatched. But not a single person approached them. Perhaps, it was the look of utter distaste on Rosier’s face. It was more probably the feral, cold look in Tom’s eyes, promising retribution on any that dared to say something, anything, to face.

“How’s the bank?” Tom asked.

“I’ve been promoted from data analyst to junior stockbroker,” Rosier said, sounding rather smug.

Tom snorted. “Sounds dreadful.”

“How’s your menial job, then?” Rosier asked, nastily.

“Still bearing fruits. I’ve been working there for five years, and I’m close...soon, I’ll have what’s mine, and I’ll be finished there,” Tom said pleasantly.

Rosier hummed. “What will you do?” he asked.

“Prove people like you wrong,” Tom said.

“People like me?”

“People drowning in wealth. People pretending to be what they aren’t. People that look down on others,” Tom said. He paused. “Well...I don’t care much for others. Perhaps, people that look down on me.”

“I’ve never looked down at you in my life, ‘my Lord’,” Rosier said teasingly. “You’re far too intelligent for that job. You could do something important, Tom. Something...life-changing for _everyone._ For...the Dark.”

“I will. Grindelwald…” Tom paused as he spoke the man’s name. Already, heads were snapping towards him, sneering for even thinking the name. “There’s only enough room for one ‘Dark Lord’, and I don’t fancy being called the ‘reincarnation’ of Gellert Grindelwald and whatnot.”

“No. It isn’t wise, is it? The Dark Lord gig. And you don’t have the funds,” Rosier said with a smirk.

“Alas, I do not. Nor could I ever tolerate the arse-kissing to get there. Do you know who I would have to align myself with? Bloody Malfoys,” Tom snarled, his lips curled back over his teeth. “I’d rather _die.”_

Rosier raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you’d rather die, your hatred runs deep.”

“Deeper than Hades.”

“You’re far too dramatic for your own good,” Rosier sighed. “You should be an actor.”

“Beneath me,” Tom drawled.

“Oh, no. You’d be _good_ at performing. Drama and gravitas,” Rosier continued to tease, his lips curling into a wide pointy smile.

Tom smirked. “Why would I pretend to be someone else when you literally can’t get better than, well, me?” He stopped in front of the Hippogriff Cafe and let out a soft, sibilant laugh. “I hope Abraxas Malfoy is in there. I want him to have a heart attack when he sees me step into his  upper-class lunch place.”

“That’s enough wishing people dead, Tom. Can we just have a normal lunch?” Rosier sighed.

The Hippogriff Cafe was quite lovely, a wooden cafe painted dove grey, flower boxes overflowing with daisies and lilies on each window. Tom peered through the windows. A brown-skinned girl with a frizzy mess of curls tied up on top of her head was serving two older women, both dusted in powder and stuffed into too-tight, old-fashioned velvet robes. Those two older women...definitely old wizarding families. Probably, Dark wizarding families too, pretending that they were above it all...

Tom laughed, a little louder this time. “Come now, friend. Would you really be around me so much if you wanted ‘normal’?”

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1924**

Tom sat at the end of the Slytherin table, staring down at his journal. He bit at the tip of his quill for a moment before he continued his notes in small-cramped writing, scrawled in every which way on the page. His journal was the one place where he was anything less than immaculate, where he let all of his thoughts fly about as they usually did—too much and too little and overwhelming and underwhelming all at once.

“Are you going to eat that?”

Tom dramatically rolled his eyes up as Yaxley settled across from him.

“Are you a starving Muggle tramp?” Tom asked, mockingly. He gestured towards the overflowing table of food. “Make your own plate instead of feeding off my scraps.”

“Waste not, want not,” Rosier said as he slid into his seat next to Yaxley, reaching forward to grab Tom’s plate. Tom’s wand was already out, swiftly sending a Stinging Hex at Rosier’s knuckles. Rosier hissed but didn’t pull back even as his hand smarted.

“Cease with your Muggle proverbs,” Tom hissed dangerously.

“You have a lot of hatred for Muggles, especially for someone that lives amongst them,” Rosier said, pointedly. He hesitated. “They’re not all terrible.”

“They’re scum. They discriminate based on class, skin color, and sexual deviancy. They slam the poor farther into the mud, and make each other live in filth, debasing one another so that another rises atop. It’s a wheel of misery,” Tom spat out, nastily as he watched Rosier pick over his barely touched meal.

Primly, the pureblood scion pulled his napkin and tucked it into the collar of his perfectly pressed sweater. He lifted his silverware and delicately drank the soup.

“Hmm...sounds remarkably like your beliefs,” Rosier said pointedly.

Tom looked up, outraged. “How so?”

“You believe that Muggles are beneath you. That Muggleborns are beneath you,” Rosier said.

Yaxley looked up from his sketchpad. Tom glanced over at it and saw that it was a rather remarkable portrait of himself. Yaxley looked back at him unembarrassed.

“Do you really believe that?” Yaxley asked. “Or are you letting _them_ do the thinking for you?”

The trio glanced down the table where Lucius Malfoy was holding court, his long silvery hair pulled back in a braid, as fair as an elf, his eyes cold as steel. He had them all laughing, fawning over him. He was probably, once again, talking about the pretty little Black girl that he had been betrothed to since birth, and how she was superior because she was being trained at the _French_ finishing school, Beauxbatons.

“I’m a bastard, Rosier’s a blood traitor, and you’re a half-blood born of the noblest line. And we’re the best damn people in Slytherin. So, do you really believe that Muggleborns are beneath you?” Yaxley asked, curiously. He leaned back, smirking.

“Wouldn’t it be...fun?” Rosier asked.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“To see them put in their place by a Muggleborn, of course,” Rosier said, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“To see them put in their place by a bastard. By a blood traitor,” Yaxley added, laughing softly. “I can imagine my father’s face, now. His bastard lashing out against high society.”

“Better make sure that he doesn’t have a trueborn son. It’ll burn more if he doesn’t,” Tom said with a growing smirk.

“Ah, his wife is with child now. Hope she has a girl, then,” Yaxley said.

“A toast, then. A toast to the child being a girl,” Rosier said, lifting his goblet and Tom and Yaxley joined in, toasting one another before they broke into a smothered fit of laughter.

Tom hid his awe behind his goblet. He’d never had friends before in his short fourteen years of life, but he did now, and wasn’t it extraordinary? He didn’t think he could scare them even if he tried. Here, he had found two as fearless as he. Two that wore their shame with pride. How unorthodox. How wonderful. How _magical._

And he knew—somehow—that if he told them...if he ever _dared_ to tell them about the darkness that festered within him, they wouldn’t have him exorcised like Mrs. Cole or hide from him like the other kids at the orphanage. They would walk in the darkness with him.

Yaxley was watching him.

“Let me give you some advice, Tom,” Yaxley said heavily.

“Did I ask you for advice?” Tom asked with a raised eyebrow.

Rosier snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you,” Yaxley said.

And Tom couldn’t imagine Yaxley lying. Couldn’t imagine Yaxley not knowing what that meant when he lived in a house where he was constantly at war. Draped in finery and told he deserved none of it because of the circumstances of his birth.

Tom knew all about the circumstances of birth.

“I’ll claim it, then,” Tom decided.

“Claim what?” Yaxley asked.

"Let them think me the Mudblood. The Monster. The Freak. I'll revel in it," Tom said with a terrible smile that promised retribution. "It seems that Muggles and wizarding kind alike are mindless idiots that let their gold think for them. Well, I think I'd like to expose their hypocrisy."

“Oh?” Rosier asked, leaning forward, finally intrigued.

Yaxley was already back to sketching, detailing the pale lavender bruise-like circles under Tom’s dark eyes from late nights reading and studying, consuming anything and everything.

“Oh, nothing would give me more pleasure, Rosier. Let’s treat it as an experiment. My hypothesis: here’s a fool born every minute,” Tom said. “I look forward to proving it.”

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1932**

 

“The food was bland. The bourgeoisie steals everyone’s spices, but can’t find it in themselves to use the spices? How...quaint,” Tom drawled, rolling his eyes.

Rosier snorted, shaking his head. “Tom, you had them send back your food three times and then, tipped generously.”

“To prove that I could. You saw how the hostess looked down her nose at me,” Tom snapped.

“But, you literally can’t afford it.”

“My finances aren’t your affairs, Rosier,” Tom retorted as they walked along Diagon Alley.

Rosier shook his head, amused as they walked together. Tom looked rather pointedly determined to walk straight back into Knockturn Alley’s embrace, everyone else be damned. Rosier reached out, grabbing his friend’s sleeve.

“Come with me into Magical Menageries. I need food for Mags,” Rosier said.

“I can’t believe you bought a Kneazle. You’ve become an old woman, Rosier,” Tom said as he stomped up to the shop, shoving the door open as if it were a chore, no matter that the shop was on its way back to Knockturn.

Rosier smiled, blandly.

“She’s to keep my mother company. She’s bored, screaming about pureblood supremacy and shit at her house elf. Now, she can have some variety—screaming about it at Mags,” Rosier said.

Tom rolled his eyes. “How considerate of you,” he said. Immediately, he gravitated to the same area he always had when he had rarely entered as a child. He looked into the snake habitat, at the soft, dark, but powerful, bodies writhed in a great mass.

They responded immediately to his presence, their voices overlapping one another to stare curiously at him.

_“What’s this?”_

_“Who’s this?”_

_“A human—”_

_“Whose human?”_

Tom grinned. “ _Hello, pretties,_ ” he hissed softly, his fingers brushing against the glass.

“ _He speaks! A speaker!”_

_“Never met a speaker!”_

_“A handsome speak—”_

Tom laughed softly under his breath, utterly delighted by their awe. He peered carefully at one snake in particular. She was by far the most beautiful of all of them. While they were all black, she was a vibrant green with sweet, yellow eyes. She was so small. She was practically a baby, and most interestingly, she hadn’t said a thing.

“ _Hello, sweet. Do you have a name?”_ he asked, softly.

“ _I call myself ‘Snake’,”_ she said, “ _but a Master could name me what he wanted if he fed me and kept me warm.”_

She said it so petulantly that Tom barked out a laugh before smothering the rest. He shook with his suppressed chuckles.

“ _Perhaps, you could—”_

“What are you doing?”

Tom stood up, sharply, towering over the shopkeeper that had barked at him. The shopkeeper took a step back, his eyes wide.

“What?” Tom asked coolly.

“I-I saw you. Talkin’ to that snake. What are you doing?” he snapped.

Tom scoffed. “You must be hearing things.”

“No, I wasn’t. We don’t tolerate that kind of stuff in here. It’s...it’s Dark stuff. Stuff Grindelwald would find pleasure in,” the shopkeeper said, his agitation and aggression growing.

Tom sneered. “I think you’ll find that I’m far too young and far better looking than Gellert Grindelwald.”

Rosier slowly drifted to his side, his hands held up placatingly.

“He’s with me,” Rosier said, making his eyes wide and guileless. Tom sneered. They always trusted the blonde pretty boy draped in velvets and silks.

“Well, we don’t want none of that snake shit in here. If you will _kindly_ leave,” the shopkeeper said, attempting to back them up to the door.

Rosier tried to tug Tom away.

“What if I’m paying customer?” Tom snarled.

The shopkeeper paused, dramatically looking from Tom’s shined, but admittedly secondhand, shoes to the old top hat on his head. He raised an eyebrow.

“I suspect you aren’t. Now, leave.”

Tom growled, pulling his wand. Rosier grabbed Tom’s wrist and dragged him out the door before Tom could land himself in Azkaban. Tom stormed into the small alleyway between Magical Menageries and Eeylops Owl Emporium before he let out a roar of rage. Rosier didn’t flinch as Tom wandlessly fired a Blasting Charm at the wall, just strong enough to make a few loose bricks crumble. Tom spun, shooting another Scorching Hex, and another enormous black spot appeared, one that wouldn’t go away.

Rosier was just glad that Tom was taking out on the architecture instead of a human being. Blood was so much harder to explain.

"I'm done," Tom snarled, the end of his wand spitting out sparks dangerously. Rosier raised his hands, carefully, staring at Tom with wide eyes. He glanced at the mouth of tiny alleyway and waved his wand, throwing up privacy wards.

“I know, Tom. I’m sorry,” Rosier whispered.

Tom hissed, spitting out that language again. Rosier had always found Parseltongue rather beautiful, in a dangerous, haunting way, but alas, others found it terrifying.

“I’ll make them love me, Rosier. I swear it,” Tom spat out as he paced, his words twisting from Parseltongue to English and back again.

Rosier nodded. “I know”

Tom stopped, pacing, his eyes wide as he looked back at Rosier, his teeth bared. “No...even better, I’ll make them so, so _terrified_ that they won’t be able to look away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, hey! So, here's my new story.
> 
> INTRODUCING: Tom. A disillusioned, bisexual, young twenty (two)-year-old who is done with bourgeoise and likes to kill people even though he continues to promise his friends that he'll cut back on his "addiction".
> 
> Lowkey, substitute in weed/cigarettes for murder, and you've got me LOL. That's a joke. I just hate everything. Here's a story about how I hate everything except circuses. As does Tom.
> 
> So, basically this entire fic was born out of a meme:
> 
> Everyone: Tom, no.
> 
> Tom: Tom, YES.


	3. Chapter Two

 

**1932**

Magical Menagerie’s door swung open, crashing against the wall, the bell falling from its perch and crashing to the ground with a metallic rattle. The same shopkeeper from the day before looked up from behind the counter and his eyes narrowed.

“I thought I told you—”

“Silence. I’m a paying customer. Look. I’ve even brought my pouch,” Tom Riddle sneered as he strode into the shop. He didn’t pay any mind to the other patrons, his eyes trained on the glass terrarium holding those beautiful reptiles.

“I don’t care—”

“You’re still speaking,” Tom asked, drawing his wand and flicking it once. The man lost his voice, his hand flying to his throat. Tom spun back around, stowing away his wand, and he reached a hand, uncaring as they all hissed and nipped at his hand in greeting.

“You’re being bitten up,” a young patron said, her voice deafening in the silence.

“Oh, am I?” Tom asked, curiously, his eyes bright with mischief. He turned back to the cage and held his fingers out to the green snake. She was _bigger_ than she had been yesterday. Yesterday, she’d only have been able to wrap around his wrist thrice. Now, she would wrap up his arm to his elbow. “ _Hello, sweet thing._ ”

There were shrieks and terrible whispers that broke out, but Tom ignored it all, his eyes trained on that beautiful green snake.

“ _Hello, Speaker,_ ” the green snake said, rising to meet him.

Tom grinned. “ _How would you like to have a name_?” he asked.

The green snake hissed, amiably, jetting forward and up his arm, darting into the folds of his robes. He felt her cool body travel up his arm and over his collarbone before she wrapped around his neck like a choker.

“ _Name. Name me, Master_ ,” she begged, her tongue flicking against his earlobe.

Tom smirked and strode towards the furiously silent shopkeeper. He pulled out his burlap sack, pretending that this wasn’t going to desperately hurt his abilities to pay his rent for the month and slid out seven Galleons, lining them up, face up.

“That’ll be enough, won’t it? Keep the change,” Tom said, snarkily before he turned on his heel and stormed out, without even undoing his Silencing Charm.

He knew that they would gossip about the young man in the tophat that could speak to snakes, but, frankly, Tom couldn’t give less than a damn. He strode straight for Knockturn Alley, ignoring the judgment-laden gazes, and only when he was embraced by the shadows did he truly relax. His shoulders fell and he looked down at the snake's twisting head.

“ _My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. You may call me Master if you wish,_ ” Tom said.

The snake hissed. “ _And my name?_ ”

“ _Let me think on it_ ,” Tom decided and he continued past Borgin and Burkes. He still had another half hour until his lunch hour was over, and he had half a mind to visit with Yaxley. His roommate would keep him well-fed.

Tom ignored the tittering of the prostitutes and turned down another unwieldy narrow alley, standing sideways to get through the small courtyard the opened up to his destination. The grimy windows were lit up with neon fairy lights, tiny fairies trapped in Mason jars that fluttered and buzzed, slamming their fists against their glass prisons. The faded, crooked sign of the pin-up Veela marked the entrance of Markus Scarrs’ Indelible Tattoos.

“ _Where are we, Master?_ ” the green snake hissed.

“ _My...friend’s place of work,_ ” Tom said. He grimaced. Even to his new snake, it was hard to admit that he had someone more than an acquaintance.

At least, Yaxley never took it to heart, ever like stone. Rosier would tease and pout until Tom admitted it because he knew no boundaries.

Tom pushed open the door and the bell rang. An old crone looked up, snarling at him. Tom sneered back and stomped past, right past the beautiful woman sitting by the front desk. She batted her tattooed eyelids at him, but he craned his neck, searching for Yaxley at his workstation.

“He’s being worked on by Scarr,” the secretary called.

Tom grunted his thanks and turned towards the large backroom. He knocked once on the doorframe and danced in.

“Scarr,” he said, greeting the man straddling the tall wooden stool. Scarr grunted, his eyes focused on the expanse of Yaxley’s back, wand pressed against the pale beauty-marked and inked skin, a long needle in his other hand. “Yaxley, finally finishing your back piece.”

“Hello, Tom,” Yaxley said. He turned his head, moving as little as possible, his pale eyes roving up. “Sit so I don’t get a crick in my neck.”

Tom rolled his eyes and settled down in the chair in the corner of the room. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of take-away.

“Did you pick something up from the pub?” Tom asked, slowly.

Yaxley hummed. “Eat it. It’ll be cold by the time Scarr finishes.”

"What are you getting done?" Tom asked as he reached for the takeaway plate of roast chicken on the sideboard. He carefully cut into it, prim and proper as ever, and feeding scraps of meat to his green snake.

“I’m making art. I was inspired,” Scarr said. “He had a blank canvas.”

“Really, Yaxley?” Tom said, rolling his eyes as. He looked over at Yaxley. The only blank spaces on his body now were up from his neck. Scarr’s ‘inspiration’ and ‘art’ nearly covered Yaxley’s entire body, and Yaxley had only asked for maybe 20% of the ink that covered him.

“Really,” Yaxley retorted, as bland as ever.

“ _What is he doing to your friend, Master?_ ” the green snake asked once she was suitably satisfied with the chicken that he had fed her.

“ _Tattooing him. He is embedding ink underneath his skin,_ ” Tom said. “ _I hear it is quite painful_.”

“ _How riveting_.”

“ _I suppose there is some beauty in it. At least, it gives the purebloods something to stare at. It makes them uncomfortable, and I love making wealthy people uncomfortable._ ”

The green snake hissed, uneasily, as she darted forward, confident enough to eat her own scraps from his plate as he began to feed himself. The greens were limp and the chicken was most likely a day old from the graininess on his tongue, but it was The White Wyvern. He wasn’t looking for a five-star experience.

Tom couldn’t afford one anyway.

“ _What is this...pureblood, Master?_ ”

Tom’s lips curled into a vicious grin.

“ _They're all self-righteous assholes, my sweet, who are too afraid to embrace Darkness in the daytime but will come to play in night. They perform poverty as if it were their right. They all will rot in their cesspool of hypocrisy and—”_

“What you got there?” Yaxley drawled.

Tom jerked, looking up. “What?”

“Tom, you’re not speaking English,” Yaxley said pointedly.

Tom slowly looked up at Scarr. Scarr stared at him, his tattooed eyebrows right on his cue-ball shaped head. The artist shook his head, his black eyes—nearly indiscernible from his pupils—shone with interest. He turned his gaze back to his work.

“You know it all sounds the same to me, Yaxley,” Tom retorted.

Yaxley hummed. “Did you steal a snake?”

“No. I bought her. Ah. The rent money on my end might be late. Or not. I’ll ask Rosier,” Tom said sharply.

“Tom…”

“I had to prove a point. They thought I couldn’t afford to shop in their bourgeoisie store!”

“You can’t, Tom. You can’t afford it. It’s why we have no rent,” Yaxley said, low and rolling. He never snapped or yelled. It wasn’t in his nature, but his irritation was there in the way his brow furrowed. Or that might be the pain. Tom couldn’t quite tell. “Rosier indulges you.”

“And that’s why we’ll have rent for the month,” Tom smirked.

Yaxley sighed, his eyes closing again. Tom peeked over at his back piece again. The lines were taking shape into a pair of rearing griffins. The Augurey that was usually curled up between the thorny roses climbing up Yaxley’s neck darted across his back, and dipped under the waistband of his trousers, presumably to rest on Yaxley’s thigh.

“You know, I’ve never met someone who could talk to a snake,” Scarr said.

Tom leaned back in his chair, staring at Scarr with a condescending raise of an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Really,” Scarr said. “Though, I can’t be sure. I once went to a Muggle carnival and saw a snake charmer. It was almost like she could speak to it.”

“How...riveting,” Tom drawled. “Tell me more.”

His sarcasm couldn’t be more clear.

“Sure. So, I went to his Muggle carnival…”

Tom resisted the urge to groan and tuned the man out. Soon, enough, his lunch break would be over and he’d rather listen to Borgin’s bitching than listen to a story about Muggles and carnivals.

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1925**

Lucius stood ramrod straight as he carried he carried his trunk off of the Hogwarts Express. He allowed himself a single glance into the nearest window. Not a hair was out of place, though his collar was slightly creased. Lucius smoothed it as much as possible as he strutted forward, his piercing eyes searching out for his father.

“Lucius.”

Lucius turned and walked up to his father.

“Father,” he greeted with a sharp nod of his head.

Abraxas looked vaguely impressed by his manners. The man’s heavily jeweled hand rested on Draco’s shoulder, squeezing the young boy close against his side. Lucius’ gaze softened when he looked at his little brother—recently 11. He looked both terrified and as if he were seething with jealousy as he looked at his brother, coming from a place that he would never get to attend himself. Lucius felt perhaps a little bit of pity for the boy.

It was no fault of his that Hogwarts was no place for him. Draco was young and sickly and entirely too much of his mother’s baby. Draco had been the only successful attempt at a child after Lucius. It had taken years for her to have Lucius, and she had been severely weakened after Draco. Lucius could understand it, though his father thought her a silly woman.

“I assume that your exams went well,” Abraxas said. There was no room for argument in his voice.

“Of course, sir,” Lucius said. Abraxas nodded once, and it felt like a dismissal. Lucius’ shoulders relaxed just so, and he knelt before his younger brother, a tiny smile on his face. “Hello, Draco.”

“‘Lo, Lucius,” Draco whispered.

“Enunciate, Draco,” Abraxas reminded him. He was never as strict with Draco as he had been with Lucius. Lucius appreciated that, somewhat.

“Hello, Lucius,” Draco repeated, slowly. Abraxas gave him a firm pat on his shoulder, and Draco loosened up, giving a shy smile up at his big brother.

Lucius looked up at his father, and his father seemed focused on something else. Lucius turned his head to follow his gaze and stood up straight again. The Malfoy scion rolled his eyes as he saw what had captured his attention.

Tall, handsome, Mudblood Tom Riddle had finally stepped off the train with his shabby third-hand trunk. Rosier, the blood traitor, and Yaxley, the bastard, were speaking quietly to him as if urging him to do something. Riddle looked relaxed, a smug smirk on his face. Lucius used to wipe that smirk off his face, but now, Riddle was excelling, having found his footing as the only little Mudblood in Slytherin House.

“Who is his father, boy?” Abraxas asked.

“He’s a Mudblood, Father, by the name of Tom Riddle,” Lucius sneered.

Abraxas raised an eyebrow at the open hostility in Lucius’ voice. “Ah. And what has he done to gain your ire?”

“Exist,” Lucius bit out.

Riddle was intelligent, handsome, and knew it. It was an infuriating combination with his status. He wasn’t prone to learning his betters, and though Lucius and his friends had been able to teach him in their early years, that was no more. Riddle could be a bit of a brawler when he wanted to be, just like Yaxley, and when he didn’t want to act like a common Muggle, he was a cunning duellist too.

“Ah. He seems a respectable young man. For a Mudblood,” Abraxas added, patiently. “Why haven’t you brought him into the fold?”

“Because he hasn’t any manners, Father. He’s an untrained, unpolished child,” Lucius said, full of disdain. Abraxas snorted, looking over at him.

“I seem to remember you being much the same before you were properly trained. All children need training and perhaps we can stamp out the Mudblood early in him. Are you quite sure he’s a Mudblood? He has fine bone structure,” Abraxas noticed.

Lucius shrugged, petulantly. “He’s an orphan, Father. He doesn’t know.”

“Do not shrug, Lucius. It’s common. Go to him. Reach out to him now and invite him to owl you so we may set up a time for dinner. I am intrigued,” Abraxas commanded. He took Draco’s hand and slowly guided him back towards the platform wall, preparing to wait.

Lucius knew that there was no arguing with Abraxas Malfoy. He huffed to himself as he did what his father bid, storming towards the petulant, infuriating Mudblood that was the bane of his existence. Rosier noticed him first, his mouth clicking shut and his eyes narrowing at the Malfoy scion. Riddle slowly rolled his head to look at him, and he promptly looked bored, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you need something, Malfoy?” Riddle drawled, so smug.

“My father has told me to an extend an invitation to you. We should write over the summer. So that I may invite you to dinner,” Lucius said, stiffly, his eyes burning as he glared at Riddle.

Riddle exchanged looks with his friends and snorted.

“What does your father want with me?” Riddle asked.

“I believe that he is offering you his patronage, Tom. Isn’t that right, Malfoy?” Yaxley asked, emotionless as always. Lucius’ cheeks burned with the humiliation of it all.

“Yes. My father sees...potential in you.”

"Oh. So, he doesn't see common riff-raff?" Riddle asked, batting his eyelashes.

“Oh, he definitely does. He thinks he can stomp the Mudblood out of you,” Rosier drawled, smiling his pretty boy smile.

“Look, are you going to accept or not? My father can open many doors for you that wouldn’t be accessible due to your...status,” Lucius said, disdainfully.

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t appreciate being patronized and you couldn’t pay me all the Galleons in the world to kiss your father’s lily white ass,” Riddle sneered. He looked over Lucius’ shoulder and gave a mocking salute to Abraxas followed by a crude flipping of the bird.

Lucius’ mouth dropped open and he sputtered. “You can’t...how _dare_ you…”

“You’ll catch flies like that, Malfoy,” Riddle deadpanned. “See you next September.”

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1932**

Tom left Scarr’s tattoo parlor with a somewhat full belly, and a disdain for his own job. Yaxley got to do whatever he wanted—sketching or learning the craft. Tom got to sit in Borgin and Burkes’ dusty shop and suffer stares and stupidity. He reminded himself that it was all in the name of getting what was his own. Tom’s inheritance sat in their grasp, the only thing left of his magical blood and he would possess it one way or another.

He pushed open the door and settled behind the counter. Borgin was probably asleep after his midday meal, and Burke wouldn’t be back until he settled that deal with the Parkinsons. There were a few choice books in their library that Burke had heard rumor of and wanted his hands on.

“ _Master, do you have tattoos on you?”_ his snake asked.

Tom snorted. “ _No, my sweet. I don’t suppose I’d be the type.”_

_“No, I suppose not. It is a noble art, isn’t it?_ ” the snake asked.

Tom looked down at her in surprise as she slunk from around his shoulders, down his arm and coiled on the counter in front of him. She was almost human-like in her curiosity. If Yaxley spoke Parseltongue, Tom thought he’d enjoy her.

“ _How so?_ ”

“ _To tell your truth upon your skin the way snakes do. Our stories are in our scales. His story, his truth, is on his skin,_ ” his snake said, so self-righteous and proud.

It nearly made Tom laugh. He would’ve until he heard a loud amount of laughter. Tom jerked up, a grimness settling over him as he stared through the grimy glass. It wasn’t the usual whores that he was used to, pointing and staring. It was a gaggle of children, all doubled over in their laughter, decked in velvet and silks. One girl with bright blonde hair flagging behind her ran forward, spinning and chuckling. They were laughing at something.

Tom stood up, holding his hand out for his snake to slither up his arm. Slowly, he approached the door and then he flung it open with all his might, making the glass rattle in the window frame. The children jumped, staring at him with wide eyes, their laughter tapering off. Tom pulled his wand, his lips curled into a sneer.

“Enjoying your time down Knockturn Alley, children?” Tom hissed dangerously.

The children whipped around to stare at him, forgetting to point and laugh at the hags and tattooed wizards going about their days. The blonde girl opened her mouth and then shut it again. She stood up straighter, lifting her chin.

“We’re just—”

“ _Silencio_.”

Her voice disappeared and she clutched her throat, eyes wide.

“Heckling the freaks seems like a wonderful past time until you get _caught_ ,” Tom snarled, angrily and he tilted his head as they looked at him, ashen. They looked scared shitless, as they should be. “Down here, we have to _pay_ for a show. Now fucking leave.”

As if on cue, the green snake rose from her perch around his neck and lunged forward, snapping her long fangs and hissing. The children screamed and then they were pounding down the road, back towards the wide, light mouth into Diagon Alley. Tom’s eyes narrowed as he flicked his wand, sending a horn-growing hex at the little brave blonde girl.

“ _What awful children,_ ” the snake hissed.

“ _You were quite brave and threatening,_ ” Tom said. He tilted his head as he regarded her. “ _Hmm...I think you shall have a name now.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Yes. Nagini. After the naga—the great snake.”_

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1927**

Evan Rosier was still. He was as still as he possibly could be. He stayed as still as stone, because he imagined, if he weren’t, he would shatter just like his mother had. Vinda Rosier was in pieces, trembling through her sobs. She knelt in the dirt, unlike the pureblood heiress she had been raised to be as they entombed Evan’s father in a casket of marble. No one said anything. They allowed her this—Vinda had been one of the few to marry for love. Evan knew his father was many things—bigot, corrupt, bureaucrat, and general arse—but, he had loved Evan’s mother as much as she loved him.

Evan’s father had loved Evan too.

“My condolences, Rosier.”

Evan blinked once, then twice, and turned to look at Lucius. The young man was staring straight ahead as if he hadn't said a word. He was watching his own father, Abraxas, who stood with his youngest son, Draco, tucked against his side. Abraxas didn't look very well.

“Much appreciated, Malfoy,” Rosier said, graciously.

“He lived a long life,” Lucius said.

Evan scoffed. “Quite,” he said. It wasn’t really true. Wizards could live upwards a hundred years. Evan’s father had barely been sixty-five.

“I suppose I should call you Lord Rosier, eh?” Lucius asked, as if they were _mates_. Evan sneered as he finally caught Lucius’ eyes.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Evan snapped. “My father isn’t even in the mausoleum yet.”

“And yet, you wear his ring on your finger,” Lucius pointed out. “The youngest Lord in a generation. The amount of _power_ you possess, Rosier, in that ring is—”

“I _know_ ,” Evan said, shortly, cutting the man off.

Lucius fell silent, realizing how he had overstepped. They continued to observe the funeral in relative silence as one of the Black ladies stepped forward, taking Vinda by the wrist and pulling her into the fold of the other pureblood ladies, comforting her. Evan resisted the urge to scoff. Tom would point out how lovely and accommodating these women were now, but the moment that the whole spectacle of a pureblood funeral was over, they would be back to gossiping about the poor widow, Vinda Rosier, who had made a great show at her own husband’s funeral.

Evan’s eyes burned.

His father was dead.

“Perhaps, I could have had more tact, Rosier, but truly, you’re a young Lord. You hold an incredible amount of sway in the Ministry now. You could do quite a lot of good with that,” Lucius said. He leaned forward. “My father and I would be happy to assist you in learning the what-to-do in the Ministry.”

“I’ve no interest in being a pawn to the Ministry or the Malfoys, nor does my mother,” Rosier warned. He could see the look in Abraxas’ eyes. Vinda was still a beautiful woman.

“But, you’ll be a pawn to a Mudblood and a bastard?” Lucius sneered. Rosier looked at him surprised. “Don’t let your father die in shame.”

“What did you say to me?” Rosier asked through clenched teeth.

Lucius fully turned to look down at him, rolling his eyes. “Your father would turn in his grave if he knew who you _associate_ with. Riddle is a filthy Mudblood and Yaxley is a fucking bastard. They’re the scum under our feet, and you insist on associating with scum. If you knew any better—”

“You’re full of shit. Get out.”

Lucius looked at him in surprise. “What?” he asked softly.

“You think I want to be here? My father is dead and my only two friends can’t be here because of people like _you_. Bigots and hypocrites and racists and _zealots_. Take your fucking dogma and get out of my house,” Evan snarled. He stormed away without waiting for the Malfoys to take their leave, fleeing back up to the manor.

He only made it to the garden before he broke down in tears.

* * *

**SHOWMEN**

* * *

 

**1932**

They crowded around the finished back piece, peering at the vibrant moving colors jumping across Yaxley’s skin. Tom’s lips parted and he reached forward to touch the skin. He hissed when Rosier’s hand flashed out, smacking Tom’s hand away.

“Why did you do that?” Tom snarled.

“You could mess it up,” Rosier said plainly as if he hadn’t just put his _hands_ on Tom.

Yaxley snorted as he arched his back, popping his spine. Tom’s nose wrinkled.

“I hate when you do that,” Tom commented. “You know that.”

“You hate a lot of things. Too many to keep up with,” Yaxley returned immediately and he hid his grin as Tom made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat.

Tom traced the tattoo with his eyes—it was beautiful if Tom was being honest. The reds swirled into one another. A phoenix and an augurey crossed over his shoulder blades, circling one another and traveling the length of Yaxley’s, admittedly muscular, arms. Trailing further down were balloons and elephants and hippogriffs with little riders on their back. Trailing down the length of his spine was a swinging trapeze, a dismembered hand with an eye in the center of the palm clinging to it. The colors assaulted Tom’s eyes and he had to look away.

"It's remarkably detailed," Rosier commented around a yawn. He made an awed sound. "Look at that. It's Tom's hat."

“No, it’s not,” Tom protested before he found that Rosier was right.

Sitting upside down was Tom’s old top hat, a thick green snake slithering out from it, endlessly and sliding around Yaxley’s waist, probably to nestle somewhere else on his skin.

“You make an impression on Markus. He thinks you’re prickly and funny,” Yaxley said.

Tom smirked but made no other comment.

“Nagini likes it,” Tom said as he looked towards the warmed Transfigured rock his new pet basked on, sleepily curled up.

“Nagini?” Rosier asked mildly as he stood and began to pack up for the night.

“My tattoos?” Yaxley asked as he pulled his pajama top back over his shoulders, hiding away the stars and moons and planets and _magic_ that adorned his skin.

“She thinks it’s brave to wear your story on your skin as snakes wear their scales,” Tom said absently. Privately, he thought might agree with Nagini. Yaxley was covered in tattoos from his jaw down to his toes, with runes and creatures and people and worlds covering him. People looked at him sideways and he walked proudly anyway.

“Well, when she’s awake, be sure to give her my thanks,” Yaxley said. He stood up and turned towards Rosier and Tom, arms crossed over his exposed chest. He looked at Tom expectantly. "Rent, Tom?"

“Oh. Rosier, I’ll need to borrow rent money. I spent it on Nagini,” Tom said. He barely paid attention to Rosier’s answer as he stood up to get ready for bed. He walked across the tiny sitting room to the kitchenette, waving his wand so that their dishes would wash themselves.

Rosier rolled his eyes. “This is the fourth time this year.”

“It probably won’t be the last,” Yaxley added before Tom could. Yaxley waved his wand, setting up the pull-out couch that he slept on. Tom and he were supposed to switch every other month, but Yaxley never made Tom sleep on the terrible couch.

Tom scowled at them but didn’t say anything.

“You’re going to have to stop spending money you don’t have, Tom,” Rosier sighed even as he pulled out his little grey sack that was attached to the Rosier vaults. He quickly counted out thirty Galleons and Tom grinned, openly.

Rosier looked surprised by the sudden burst of emotion, and his eyes softened.

“Well, soon enough, I’ll be making so much money that I’ll pay you back triple,” Tom swore.

“Is that so? At Borgin and Burke’s. You’re really much too smart work as a shopkeeper, Tom,” Rosier said.

Tom sneered. “I’m not working for the hypocritic bureaucracy of the Ministry or big banks, Rosier. I’m not a sell-out,” Tom said pointedly.

Rosier snorted. “Merlin, Tom,” he sighed, shaking his head at Tom’s dramatics. “That’s enough for rent and groceries for the next month. What’s that bring your tab to?”

“At least two hundred Galleons,” Yaxley said unhelpfully.

Tom grimaced. “Get out of my flat.”

Rosier broke into a grin as he strutted towards the fireplace and wiggled his fingers in parting as he Flooed back to the Rosier estate. Yaxley sighed, looking at the flickering firelight with a curious look on his face.

“Well, good night, Tom. I have an early day tomorrow. I have my first solo appointment,” Yaxley said and for once, he looked _nearly_ overcome by joy, if that was a word that Tom could put to the barely present smile on Yaxley’s face.

"And it'll be brilliant because I only surround myself with brilliance," Tom said firmly.

Yaxley snorted and collapsed onto the pull-out couch, Summoning his woolen blanket and the thin pillows out of the cupboard with a wave of his wand. Tom hesitated by his doorway.

“Go to sleep, Tom,” Yaxley said without even looking at Tom.

“You know that we won’t live here forever, right?” Tom asked softly.

Yaxley stilled for just a moment. “Where else will we go?” he whispered.

“What do you mean by that?” Tom asked, his voice hard.

Yaxley finally turned to stare at him and Tom was stricken by the look in his eyes. He had never seen Yaxley look so lost.

“For all intents and purposes, we’re a bastard and a Mudblood with no money to our names. A tattoo artist and a shopkeeper. What prospects do we have?” Yaxley demanded. “What have I always said?”

Tom’s gaze narrowed. “ ‘Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you’,” Tom hissed, spitting back those words that his friend had spoken to him over half-a-decade ago. “Sounds like you’re awfully hurt, Yaxley.”

“I’m being realistic,” Yaxley murmured. “Tom, it’s mad to think—”

“No. I don’t accept that. I’m the Heir of Slytherin,” Tom said coldly. “You can call me mad all you want. But, I _know_ that I’m...I’m meant for more.”

He remembered the day _Dumbledore_ had come to get him. He was special. He knew he was special. He had always known, and perhaps, no one else thought it, but Tom could feel it in his blood.

Yaxley sighed and waved his wand, dimming the fireplace. Softly, he whispered, “Good night, Tom.”

Tom turned on his heel, slamming the door shut behind him. He stood in the darkness for a long moment and fell back against the door, sliding down it. In the darkness of his room, he would allow himself this one moment of weakness. Only one. He closed his eyes and knew that the world in front of him was _his_. He had promised—had sworn—that he would show them. _They_ would show them all, and yet, Yaxley and Rosier had resigned themselves to their fates.

Not Tom. Never Tom.

If he had resigned himself to his fate, he would have still been at Wool’s Orphanage. Tom had been told no so many times before. But, not again.

He stood to his full height and he crossed towards his bed, falling into it first face, his cheek pressed deep into the flat pillow. When he closed his eyes, he saw a flash of light and sparks and magic. Always magic. He had dreamed of magic when he was young.

A red phoenix streaking across a ceiling, dancing with the grey-blue Augurey. Tom let him fall deeper into sleep, his breath evening out as a hippogriff flashed across the black and red of his eyelids and he _slipped away…_

_He stood in the center of a ring._

_The silence was deafening._

_Metal cracked. It was so dark. So, so dark._

_The darkness swallows him whole and he knows not what he’s supposed to do. Should he try and fly? It was his dream, after all._

_Yet, it was **not** his dream and it would **not** be his dream and he couldn’t fly. Not him. But, something else was flying. Something...something…_

_Something was coming closer. He lifted his own wand, breathing softly as he turned in a full circle, trying to peer out. He felt eyes. So many eyes on him, and yet he couldn’t_ see—

_LUMOS._

_The end of his wand exploded in LIGHT._

_The Phoenix and Augurey were circling one another in the air, flames trailing after them. The animals were surrounding him—hippogriffs, and elephants and tigers and griffins and faceless men on their backs. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat as he looked around. They were running around him, suffocating him and the lights were suddenly so blinding. His hand flew up to his throat as he fought back the bile, but the lights were beating harder and he heard the creatures shrieking and crying around him, demanding his attention._

_His head pounded behind his eyes and everywhere he looked, it was too bright._

_He raised his wand to bring the lights down, to make it go away and then, his wand was gone and Yaxley stood before him, holding **his** top hat between his hands. Yaxley was bare, all of his tattoos gone, leaving clean skin. He hadn’t seen Yaxley’s skin bare of ink in years, not since they were fifteen. He tore his gaze away from the clean—wrong—skin, and when he looked at the animals, they looked less real than they had only seconds ago. Now, they looked like ink and paint off of campus, distorted with magic the way magical paintings were sometimes when they were just a little wrong. _

What’s this?

_His voice boomed through the ring as the trapeze descended and then, Yaxley was flickering—he was a woman, with two eyes in her palms, and everything about her was **white,**_ white, _white_ , _except for her flickering red eyes and it was terribly frightening, except he wasn't afraid of_ anything, _and she said,_ Don’t you love your future, Tom Marvolo? Don’t you love my dream? _—and then, it was Yaxley again._

What’s this? _He repeated._

Your crown, _Yaxley hissed and then, he was gone, and the top hat was on his head and he was alone again, horribly alone._

Mudblood _, Lucius Malfoy’s voice boomed_.

_He collapsed to his knees, closing his eyes, shaking his head._

Nobody, _called all of the Slytherins, echoing around him until he could only clap his hands over his ears, and he felt eleven again. Eleven with the Sorting Hat barely on his head before it snarled_ SLYTHERIN—SLYTHERIN—SLYTHERIN.

MONSTER! _And that was Mrs. Cole’s shriek._

_The orphans shrieking it at him,_ Monster.

_And then a pair of hands on his, and everything was gone again. He opened his eyes and it wasn’t so bright anymore, and Yaxley was there again with Rosier, and out in the audience were a single pair of bright green eyes, hauntingly beautiful._

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted. It’s everything you ever need, _Rosier promised, his voice soft and sweet as he pulled him to his feet._ Look. What do you see? Look.

Never forget what you **are** , _Yaxley was saying, and then they were gone._

_And he was alone except for those haunting green eyes. They stared straight through him and he imagined that they were smiling, except eyes couldn’t smile and yet—_

King of Nobodies, _Rosier’s voice called._

King of Monsters, _Yaxley called_.

_But, Tom Riddle could hear nothing through the circus of noise around him._

King of Freaks, _the eyes promised._ King of—

Tom gasped himself awake and nearly fell out of the bed. He jumped up, swiping his hand through the sweaty mess of his hair. He threw his door open with a loud bang. Yaxley grunted but didn't turn over, intent on ignoring Tom. Nagini startled awake from her rock by the fireplace, and she hissed, threateningly.

He stumbled out of his tiny matchbox of a room, thundering into the living room. Yaxley groaned from the pull-out couch, pulling his thin pillow over his head and curling his long body under his woolen blanket.

“Yaxley, wake up,” Tom hissed. “Wake. _Up._ ”

Yaxley jolted awake, his wand already in hand and the wand tip pressed against the underside of Tom’s jaw. If Tom wasn’t so annoyed, he might have been impressed by Yaxley’s reaction time. Of course, Tom had taught that to him.

“What do you _want,_ Tom?” Yaxley groaned. He waved his wand, grunting out, “ _Tempus._ Dammit, Tom, it’s four in the morning.”

“I had a _dream_ ,” Tom hissed. “It was a _premonition_.”

Yaxley’s eyes narrowed. “You’re remarkable, Tom, but you aren’t a Seer.”

“I got an O on my Divination NEWTS,” Tom retorted.

“You bullshitted your way through Divination for five years,” Yaxley returned.

Tom didn’t bother following the rest of that conversation to its bitter end. They’d had this argument before, and Tom was sure that Yaxley was just bitter about his miserable T on the Divination OWLs.

“I had a dream, look,” Tom said, and he waved his wand, projecting the images that he had seen in his dream—the creatures and the faceless men riding on their backs, the Augurey and the Phoenix swirling on the ceiling. Yaxley’s lips parted as he sat up for real.

“That’s...my tattoos? You dreamed my new tattoos?” Yaxley asked, softly.

“It’s more than that, Yaxley. Don’t you see?” Tom said and he waved his wand, Glamouring his own sleep clothes into fine clothing and Summoning his top hat and settling it on his head.

Yaxley’s breath caught in his throat and then Tom dispelled the illusion spell.

“What...you dreamed... _that_?” Yaxley murmured.

“A monster. A nobody. A freak. You said not to forget what I am. To wear it like armor,” Tom said. A terrible bitterness had entered his voice and his eyes burned with fury. “Well...I will make them _love_ freaks and monsters and I will expose their hypocrisy in a mirror.”

Yaxley paused and slowly tilted his head. A glow of interest sparked in his eyes and he waved his wand, making the fire even brighter as he moved over on the couch, leaving a space for Tom.

“What...did you have in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt super inspired. I don't know, I was listening to music, and then, I was, like, okay, let's get this show on the road, let's write another chapter of the Circus AU, especially because I'm stuck on Diagnosis. Well, expect another chapter of Diagnosis out in like, a day or two, and then Circus stuff in a few weeks, I guess.

**Author's Note:**

> YO. Here's another fic. I hope you like it. I like it.


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